“Yes, it is I,” said Kaya.
She put up both hands, lifting the
helmet from her head, and the red-blonde hair fell
back from her short, gold curls. The spear dropped
with a clang to the stage and lay extended between
them, glittering.
“My voice was there,”
she said softly, “in my throat, leaping and
bounding, and the gate was unbarred.” She
seemed half afraid, and drew back in the shadow.
Ritter still sat on the edge of the
couch, where Bruennhilde had lain, and where Siegfried
had kissed her. His face had a dazed look, and
he passed his hand over his eyes several times, as
if the dusk were too dim for his sight.
“I thought you were the Schultz
gone mad!” he murmured. “Gott!
What an actress you are!”
A laugh came to him out of the darkness.
“You are no bird,” said
Ritter, “You are a Walkuere born. Take
the helmet again and the spear. As you stood
in the shadow, gazing downward, you were like a young
warrior watching his shield.” He sprang
to his feet and came toward her, placing the spear
in her hand, the helmet again on her head.
“Sing,” he said, “Let
me hear it again. Your voice is a marvel!
The timbre is silver and the tones are of bronze.
Let me look at your throat! Gott but
the roof of your mouth is arched like a dome and the
passage is as the nave of a cathedral, wide and deep!”
His hand grasped her shoulder, trembling:
“Did Helmanoff know you had a voice like that?”
he cried, “Tell me, child, did he train you?
The part is most difficult to act and to sing.
Tell me or am I dreaming still?”
Kaya fingered the spear dreamily:
“My voice is bigger and fuller,” she said;
“it came so all of a sudden, but he taught me
the part, and he told me, some day, if I were not
a Countess I could become the Bruennhilde.”
Her form stiffened suddenly and she threw off his
grasp, springing forward and crouching:
“You are Wotan and you are angry,”
she whispered, “The Bruennhilde is your child
and she has sinned. You have threatened her,
and now she is pleading: ‘Wotan Father!’”
Her voice rose, and her form shook as though with
sobs. She crept closer, still crouching, and
lay at his feet, and her voice was like something
crying and wrestling.
“Hier bin ich Vater:
Gebiete die Strafe . . .
Du verstoesest mich? Versteh’
ich den Sinn?
Nimmst du mir alles was einst
du gabst?”
Her voice sobbed, dying away into
a tone pure, soft, heart-breaking, like a breath;
yet it penetrated and filled the stage, the wings,
and came echoing back.
“Hier bin ich Vater;
Gebiete die Strafe . . .
Du verstoesest mich?”
For a moment she lay as if exhausted;
then she covered her head with her hands as if fearing
and trembling: “Now curse me,” she
whispered, “Curse me! I hear the flames
now beginning to crackle!”
The Kapellmeister put out his hand
and took hers, and lifted her: “If the
House were full,” he said, “and you acted
like that, they would go stark mad; they would shower
bouquets at your feet and carry you on their shoulders.
The Lehmann was the great Bruennhilde, but you are
greater, Kaya. Your voice has the gift of tears.
When you let it out, one is thrilled and shaken,
and there is no end to the glory and power; it encircles
one as with a wreath of tones. But when you lower
it suddenly and breathe out the sound child little
one, what have you suffered to sing like that?
You are young. What must you have suffered!”
He clasped her hands tenderly between
his own, and stared down into her eyes.
“Don’t touch me,”
she said brokenly, “I told you there
is blood on them! I am cursed like Bruennhilde.
The curse is in my voice and you hear it, and it
is that that makes you tremble and shudder just
as I tremble and shudder at night when
I dream, and I see the body beside me on the floor and
the red pool widening. Helmanoff used
to tell me my voice was cold and pure like snow; there
was no feeling, no warmth, no abandon. You see if
I have learned it, it is not Helmanoff who has taught
me but suffering.”
Her eyes were like two fires burning,
and she put her hand to her throat. “To
have the gift of tears you must have shed them,”
she whispered, looking at him strangely: “You
must have shed them.”
“Is it the curse alone,”
said the Kapellmeister, “that keeps you and
Velasco apart, little one? Forgive me!
Don’t start like that! Don’t don’t
tremble.”
Kaya backed away from him, snatching
away her hands. Her lips were quivering and
her eyes half closed. “Ah ”
she breathed, “You are cruel. Take the
spear and strike me, but don’t prod a wound that
is open and will not heal! Have you
no wound of your own hidden that you must needs bare
mine?”
“It is love that has taught
you,” said the Kapellmeister, “You love
him Velasco!”
She gave a low moan and flung her
arms up, covering her face.
The Kapellmeister stared at her for
a moment. The stage was dark, and only a bulb
of light, here and there, gleamed in the distance.
Below, the watchman was pacing the corridor, waiting,
and the smell of his pipe came up through the wings.
The scenery looked grim and ghostly; the couch of
Bruennhilde lay bare. Above were ropes and machinery
dangling, and darkness.
He clinched his teeth suddenly and
a sound escaped him, half a cry, half a groan; but
smothered, as though seized and choked back.
“Come,” he said. He went to her
roughly and took the helmet from her head, and the
shield, and the spear; she standing there heedless
with her arms across her face. They fell to
the floor with a crash, first one, then the other,
and the sound was like a blow, repeating itself in
loud echoes.
“Go and take off your things,”
he said hurriedly, “It is midnight past,
and the watchman is waiting to lock the stage door.
Rouse yourself go! I will wait for
you here.”
He heard the sound of her footsteps
crossing the stage, ascending the stair-case; and
he walked backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards,
in and out among the rocks and the trees. His
forehead was scarred with lines, and his shoulders
were bent. The look of the victorious General
about him had changed into the look of one who has
met the enemy face to face, and has fought with his
strength and his might, and been beaten, with his
forces slain and a bullet in his breast.
His eyes were fierce and his face
set, his feet stumbled; he was white as death and
weary. He heard her coming back and he walked
on, backwards and forwards, without looking or heeding.
“Have you your cloak?”
“Yes.”
“An umbrella?”
“No.”
“It is raining. Don’t
you hear it, and the thunder in the distance?
The storm has broken. Come, we will take a cab.”
He strode across the stage and down the staircase;
she following. He nodded to the watchman:
“Still rehearsing,” he
said shortly, “Sorry to keep you up. Whistle,
will you, for a Droschke? Gott! The
rain is terrific; hear it! Come.”
There was the sound of wheels, of horses’ hoofs.
He went forward and opened the door of the Droschke,
and Kaya crept in.
She was no longer the Bruennhilde;
she was a little figure, slight and pale, and wrapped
in a cloak; and she sat in the corner against the
cushions, staring out at the rain, quivering at the
thunder crashes.
Ritter stepped in behind her and closed
the door. “Nonnen-Muehle!” he cried,
“and drive fast. We are chilled to the
bone! The storm grows worse; it is devilish
late!” He flung himself back in the opposite
corner, and the Droschke rolled on.
It was still in the carriage.
From outside came the sound of the rain falling,
and the hoofs of the horses trotting. Kaya shut
her eyes. The rhythmical sound caught her senses.
She was in St. Petersburg again, and driving in the
darkness through the night and the storm; and Velasco
was beside her Velasco! They were
driving to the church to be married.
“Don’t do that again,”
cried the Kapellmeister fiercely, “I can’t
bear it.”
“W what?”
“You moaned.”
Kaya crept closer into the corner,
and clasped the cloak to her breast and throat.
“It is like seeing a bird with
a shot in its breast in torture,”
he said, “And when you sing, it is like a swan
song. Your soul is on your lips, crying out,
imploring. Kaya!”
He bent over the shrinking form in
the corner: “I was brutal to you; my heart
was sore, seeing you suffer. The words came out
like a lash; they cut you. I saw how they hurt
you. Little one if I bare the wound
to the air again, forgive me forgive me!
No don’t shrink away. If you
love him like that, my God I know him!
He comes to my house! Only a few weeks ago he
was there, and he’s coming again; soon, I tell
you, soon. I swear I will bring him to you!
If he won’t come, I will force him; with my
hands I will drag him if he refuses.”
The girl gave a cry: “Drag
him!” she cried, “Force him! Ah,
he’d fly at a word he’d fly
to me!” She caught her breath: “Bozhe
moi!” she said suddenly, and laughed:
“What are you talking about, dear Master?
Velasco he’s nothing to me!
A musician, you said a violinist!
You forget I am Bruennhilde to-night. We talked
of a curse not love. Siegfried is
still behind the flames and cannot get past.”
She laughed again, a sound like a
trill: “You forget, don’t you?”
she said, “I was acting a part! It wasn’t
real; I was only playing pretending.
How the Schultz cheated you! Ah, dear Master you
thought she had lost her wits and her size all at once.
You never noticed how she had shrunken; and that was
because I stood on tip-toe, and held myself straight
with the helmet. If the light hadn’t fallen
full on my face, you would never have guessed!
I laughed to myself; how I laughed! I laughed!”
“Child,” said the Kapellmeister
suddenly. “You are sobbing!”
“I am not I am laughing,
dear Master. Look at me! There is the mill
across the promenade. How gaunt the wheel looks,
and strange, with its spokes dripping, and the rain
lashing down! And there is a light in my window a
candle, see? Old Marta is waiting, and how she
will scold. Tell me, Master dear Master,
before we get there, tell me some day may
I act Bruennhilde and sing, when the curtain is up,
and the House is full, and Siegfried is there, and
you at the baton and the orchestra playing?
Tell me!”
She drew closer to him, and the last
words came out in a whisper, breathless and eager.
“Put those other thoughts out of your mind,
dear Kapellmeister. Ve Velasco is
only a name nothing more!
“If I can sing I will be happy;
I promise you. The sting of the curse will pass.
You are silent and cold!” she cried, “You
won’t tell me, and we are almost there at
the mill! Master!”
The Kapellmeister started: “The
mill?” he stammered, “What were you saying,
Kaya? How cold your hand is, little one!
Of course you shall sing. You shall be our
great Bruennhilde and the visitors will flock to Ehrestadt,
and you will be famous and beloved.”
He hesitated: “I can’t
see you, only your eyes gleaming, Kaya. How
bright they are, little one, like live coals!
Where did you get that name ’Master’?
Did Marta teach you? My pupils say that, the
chorus, the orchestra, and the singers; but you never
used it before. It is because I am old now and
my hair is grey, and you are a child. I must
seem to you like your father, Kaya.”
“No,” said the girl quickly,
“not my father! He was hard and cruel;
he was a friend of the Tsar. I I
never loved him.”
“Nor me,” cried the Kapellmeister hoarsely,
“Nor me!”
The words sprang to his lips in spite
of himself; they were low, and he thought she did
not hear; but her ear was keen. She bent forward
taking his hand, and kissed it swiftly, holding it
between her own.
“Dear Kapellmeister! Dear
Master!” she cried, half laughing, half with
a sob: “You know I love you. When
I was ill and alone, and desperate, and helpless,
longing to die, you came to me. You saved me
and helped me; and I was nothing to you but a stranger.
You were father and mother to me; and now, you are
my master, and teacher, and friend.” She
lifted his hand again to her lips and caressed it:
“I love you,” she cried, “dear Master,
I love you with all my heart!”
Ritter stirred against the cushions;
his hand lay limp in her clasp. “Yes, little
one,” he said, “Yes. Your heart is
like your voice, fathomless and pure. The carriage
has stopped now, and there is the candle, burning
up yonder under the eaves. Can you find your
way alone, without help? I am strangely weary.”
His voice was low, and the words came
slowly, with an effort. He passed his hand over
his face:
“Good-night Bruennhild’!”
He held her hands and drew her towards
him: “Good-night, little one. There
are shadows under your eyes, and your lip quivers;
you are pale. Good-night.”
He held her for a moment in a strong grasp, staring
down into her face; then she was gone and the door
closed behind her. His hands were empty, and
the horses had turned, and were galloping back through
the rain and the night.